


These Terrible Questions

by evangelistofstars



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Pining, basically its letters but from dolokhov's point of view, probably a oneshot but i may add more chapters, shoutout to eva ariella and jennah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-31 09:26:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangelistofstars/pseuds/evangelistofstars





	1. A Letter Which I Composed

* * *

Dolokhov heard Anatole's voice, the first thing he had heard in a while, having confined himself to his room and driven out all but his own thoughts, drowning himself in alcohol, drinking the memories away. That was something he did often now, as his mind liked to go back to a place that he would rather not be reminded of. And yet Anatole was here, the sun streaming in through his lifetime of darkness.

"Fedya, can you do me a favor?"

He opened his door slightly, replying in a rough, drunken voice. "Of course, what is it, Tolya?"

"I need you to write a letter."

"What?"

"I need you to write a letter to Natasha Rostova."

Dolokhov had walked down the stairs, furrowing his brow in confusion. "What about?"

"Write a proposal, tell her how much I love her, and explain all the details of the elopement." Anatole said, handing him a blank piece of paper and a pen.

"Do it yourself!" Dolokhov laughed, handing the paper back to Anatole. Why couldn't Anatole just leave him alone?

"Don't have the time, I'm hitting up the gypsies, gonna have one last revel before the elopement."

Dolokhov rolled his eyes. "Very well then."

And with that, Anatole left, and Dolokhov retired to his room.

He drank some more, and then pondered the nature of the letter which he had still neglected to write. How was he supposed to write a love letter? He had not a single romantic bone in his body, especially not with Natasha, someone he barely knew. He wished Anatole would just write the letter himself, but he knew that wasn't gonna happen. He had to write this letter. He couldn't let Anatole down. But what was he supposed to write? There was no way...

Well, there was _one_ way...But that would require going back to the very same memories he had been trying to forget. 

If Dolokhov was anything, he was loyal to his friends, and if being loyal to Anatole meant going back to that place, then he would do it. 

He poured himself another drink, staring off into the distance and remembering what could've been.

 

\---------------

 

_It was the year 1806. Dolokhov had been shot and injured in a duel with Pierre Bezukhov, over Hélène Kuragina. He was staying with his friend, Nikolai Rostov, who was there at the duel and had invited him into his home._

_Dolokhov had never been changed by women. He flirted with them, he slept with them, he found them attractive, sure, but he had never felt an emotional connection with a woman._

_It was then that he met Nikolai's cousin,_ _the beautiful Sonya Rostova._

_He was entranced by her, as she was not only physically beautiful (though she was, indeed, quite pretty) but also beautifully pure of heart, and he felt an immediate connection with her, something he had never felt before in his life._

_Dolokhov was in love. Completely, madly in love in a way that he didn't know. It confused him, but it did not much frighten him. Nothing really frightened him, did it?_

_So, he did what anyone would do when they're in love, he proposed to this Sonya Rostova, at the time expecting her to say yes, that she would return his affections, as usually happened with him._

_But much to his surprise, she said no, claiming that she loved another, more specifically, that she loved Nikolai, and could not imagine marrying anyone else._

_Dolokhov faded away, and Sonya never saw him again._

_He went to the club, drank away his sorrows with Anatole (though that didn't really do much for him) and distracted himself with Hélène._

_But it wasn't enough._

_It was never enough._

 

_\-----------_

 

Six years later, he was still pining for Sonya. He tried to ignore it, to forget it, shutting himself alone and drowning in alcohol to wash away the rejection, but nothing could undo the pain which plagued him.

He stared at the blank paper, having neglected to write even a single word to Natalya, and for a second was infused with inspiration.

He started writing furiously on the page, drinking periodically and remembering his interaction with Sonya. When he was done, the letter read:

_Dear Natalie,_

_I must love you or die._

_If you love me, say yes, and I will come and steal you away, steal you out of the dark._

_I want nothing more._

_Forever, Anatole Kuragin._

He read his writing over and over again. It was true, he meant every word of it. Just from the wrong man, and to the wrong Rostova. Every word of it was true, and here he was, pining away instead of confessing his feelings.

He sealed the letter, poured himself a drink, and looked solemnly off in the distance.

 

 


	2. He Writes, He Writes, He Writes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonya discovers Natasha and Anatole's affair... though not in the way she intended.

As Sonya had left for a bit to catch some air, Natasha had been reading the same letter, the one from Anatole Kuragin, over and over again, letting herself drown in his words. She loved him, and she wanted to run away with him.

By the time Sonya returned, Natasha had fallen asleep. The letter was still in her hand. Sonya at first thought nothing of it, but then, examining it more closely, decided to read the letter. She gasped as she read what Natasha was trying to do. "It can't be that she loves him, it can't be!" she looked towards Natasha, who was starting to awaken from her slumber.

"Natasha!"

"Sonya you're back!" said Natasha, embracing Sonya, before noticing her look of embarrassment and immediately understanding the situation.

"You've read the letter, haven't you, Sonya?" she asked, her face expressing both confusion and suspicion. 

Sonya nodded, gazing solemly at Natasha.

Natasha smiled. "Oh, I'm glad! I can't hide it any longer! I was going to tell you, I swear. Well, now you know, we love one another! Oh, Sonya, he writes! He writes!" she said, jumping happily and twirling Sonya around. She seemed so happy... yet Sonya still wasn't sure she could trust this Anatole.

"And what of Andrey?"

"Oh, Sonya, if you only knew how happy I am, do you even know what love is?"

"Is it all over?" Sonya asked.

"I don't understand the question.." said Natasha, lightly.

"Are you... refusing Prince Andrey?"

Natasha sighed. "You don't understand _anything,_ do you? Stop talking nonsense and listen."

 

"I don't understand you, Natasha! You've loved one man all year, and suddenly you claim to be in love with someone you've only known for _three days!_ Surely you must be joking!" Sonya said. She loved Natasha, but she couldn't believe her sometimes.

"Has it really only been three days? It feels like I've loved him forever!" Natasha sighed. Like I've never loved anyone before! Not like this, at least. I've lost all my will, all myself. My life is in his hands now. I'll do anything he wants, anything! What can I do? I'm so happy, Sonya! And frightened too, but happy! I'm in love, can't you see it? What don't you understand about this? I love him!" Natasha looked at Sonya with pleading eyes.

"I won't let it come to that, Natasha. I shall have to tell someone." Sonya said, bursting into tears.

"What do you mean? Please don't! If you tell you are my enemy, Sonya, I've confided in you!"

"Why exactly has he said to you, Natasha? And why can't he just ask for your hand in person? Is there a reason this must all be secret?"

"I don't know, but there must be a good reason! One can't doubt him Sonya, I can't! Don't you understand?"

"Does he love you?"

" _Does he love me?_ Yes, I mean, you've read his letter, haven't you? I can't live without him, Sonya, I can't!"

Sonya sighed. She was done with this. "Natasha. It's final. I'm not going to let this happen!"

"Fine, then I hate you, Sonya! I hate you! Leave, get out of here! I hate you!" And with that, Natasha stormed out of the room.

 

\-------------

 

Sonya sighed. Natasha was just a stubborn girl. She would soon learn the consequences of her actions, and Sonya would be the one who would have to pick up the pieces. And here she was, standing in the dark again, alone, watching her friend as she went down that strange path.

Time went on. Letters came. Natasha was still in love, and her behavior became more ridiculous. Trailing off, leaving her sentences unfinished, staring at the walls, laughing at the most random things, waiting at the door for Anatole to come. And as Natasha grew more dreamy, Sonya grew more worried. She had heard rumors about Anatole Kuragin. He was a player, and it wasn't a good idea.

Yet more days passed, and one day, Natasha returned with yet another letter, but this time with a sad look on her face, and Sonya knew that a dreadful plan was forming in her mind.

She read the letter again, trying to put together the pieces. There was something familiar about the writing, as if someone she knew had written it. But she couldn't place this familiarity, nor could she tell if it was simply de ja vu. 

She stopped taking care of herself, sleeping in her clothes, and spending every waking moment worrying about Natasha.

She would hold her back by force if she had to, she wouldn't let her run away like that.

As time continued to pass, she felt the need to tell someone, but she also didn't want to, as Natasha had sworn her into secrecy, and telling someone would mean that their friendship would never be repaired again. She sighed, thinking back to the Rostov's kindness, and Natasha's friendship, and many more sleepless nights led her into the plan that she would do anything to stop Natasha's elopement.

 

 

And for some reason, her mind kept going back to that familiar handwriting. Where did she know it from? She had to put the pieces together.

She would get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing she ever did. 

And with that, she opened a book.


End file.
